


The end of all days

by Builder



Series: Heroverse [36]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Depression, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Bucky Barnes, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:00:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26804749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Bucky waits until Steve’s been called out for a mission before he opens the box he’s stashed in the dustiest corner of the garage.  He sighs as he picks it up, first stashing it under his arm while he waits for his heart to stop palpitating so he can man up and rip off the tape.He does, eventually, though it takes him near half an hour to do so.  It’s just a box, just a dumb order from the hardware store that weighs maybe two pounds at most, but the way it pulls on Bucky’s conscience makes it seem perhaps a thousand times heavier.  Even if it did weigh that much, he should still be able to handle it.  The metal arm is made to lift whatever’s necessary to complete a mission: a car, a tank, most of a crumbled brick wall… He ought to be able to handle the coil of nylon rope with no problem.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Heroverse [36]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/838239
Comments: 9
Kudos: 32





	The end of all days

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr @builder051

Bucky waits until Steve’s been called out for a mission before he opens the box he’s stashed in the dustiest corner of the garage. He sighs as he picks it up, first stashing it under his arm while he waits for his heart to stop palpitating so he can man up and rip off the tape. 

He does, eventually, though it takes him near half an hour to do so. It’s just a box, just a dumb order from the hardware store that weighs maybe two pounds at most, but the way it pulls on Bucky’s conscience makes it seem perhaps a thousand times heavier. Even if it did weigh that much, he should still be able to handle it. The metal arm is made to lift whatever’s necessary to complete a mission: a car, a tank, most of a crumbled brick wall… He ought to be able to handle the coil of nylon rope with no problem.

Bucky leaves the cardboard in the front hall, then slinks up the stairs to the bedroom. He leaves the rope on the end of the bed as he slowly changes his clothes from a pair of Steve’s old sweats into his own jeans and t-shirt. Bucky doesn’t want want Steve associated with this, not in the slightest. It’s his decision. His call. 

Bucky takes up the rope in both hands. He squeezes it. Strokes it. Feels the sleek strands and furrows with his flesh fingers. He unfurls the length, watching as it slides between his fingers, instantly losing the creases from its bundling. For a moment Bucky’s tempted to let the rope spiral into a snake-like pile on the floor, but it’s too juvenile, and the moment’s too serious. He can’t bring himself to let go of the literal lifeline in his hands.

With a tremulous sigh, Bucky slips the rope around his wrist and carries it toward the bathroom. He tries to slip past the mirror without glancing at his reflection, but he catches sight of himself out of the corner of his eye. Bucky’s thinned, he knows. Enough for Steve to notice, though he hasn’t said anything yet. Just enough for his hand to linger over the slightly more pronounced hip and collar bones when they lie together in bed. Bucky’s heart drops an inch or so when he realizes they’ll never lie together again. It isn’t fair to Steve. But Bucky never deserved such a good fate to begin with. 

He tears his eyes away from the sunken holes he sees in the mirror and moves toward the shower. That’s his final destination, his last stop. Bucky pulls back the ivory curtain and steps over the low rim of the tub. There’s still water around the drain from this morning’s washing, the first one he’s taken in a while. He may be deep into the depths of his own personal hell, but he refuses to leave looking as such. His socks are soaked within seconds, so he peels them off and tosses them out of the tub and into the bathroom trash.

Bucky straightens up and lets out his breath as he comes eye to eye with the shower head. He’s tested the strength of the slim pipe coming out of the wall several times. Yanking on it. Trying to pull up on it. Never with the metal arm, but the thing seems to hold up well enough to the tests of his flesh one. Bucky puts his hand up again and gives the pipe a tug, then strokes it up and down. He feels he ought to be kind to it, maybe show it some respect. Especially if he’s going to count on it to do what he needs it to do.

With the deftness of the assassin he’s trained to be, Bucky loops the rope around the pipe and begins to tie the knot. It’s far from the first time he’s drawn up a noose, but it is the first time he’s done so and meant it. He’s glad his body still remembers how to do it, even if the steps have been repeatedly wiped from his brain. It feels good now to let his fingers manipulate the smooth cord while his mind remains blank. Bucky knows what he’s doing. He’s done considering. He’s finished with thinking. And soon he’ll be finished forever.

Once the knot is secure, Bucky pulls the loop over his head. He leans forward, just enough to feel the pull of the rope around his throat. His heart begins to hammer in his chest with something like… trepidation? Not quite. More like knowledge of the gravity of what’s coming next. He leans a bit further, relishing the agony against his Adam’s apple. Bucky slowly lifts one foot testing his balance and increasing the pressure of the loop around his neck. 

If he lifts his other foot and lets himself fall, it’ll be over. It’s what he wants. Isn’t it? Bucky rises onto his toes and bends his knee, leaving as little flesh as possible still touching the bottom of the tub. The tightness continues to ratchet up against his windpipe. Bucky gasps for air, then breathes out sharply through his nose. He’s above this. He doesn’t need to respire. He can go out stoically, without letting his chest rise and fall again.

The muscles in Bucky’s thigh cramp as he continues to stand, perched on his middle three toes, as the air in his lungs diminishes. His face goes hot, and he feels a faint sheen of sweat break out across his forehead. Lights begin to dance in front of his eyes. He grits his teeth, then counts backward slowly in his head. Three. Two. One.

Bucky lifts his second foot. There’s an audible jolt as the rope slips several inches down the pipe to the base of the shower head. The cord digs into his neck and slides around from the sides, burning his pale skin. Bucky’s vision goes completely black. His stomach falls while his heart rockets upward. Death, he thinks. This is it.

There’s a tremendous scraping noise as the shower head parts company with the pipe, then a thud as Bucky falls in a heap in the bottom of the bathtub. He can’t see save for an array of neon sparkles that make his eyes prickle with tears. His head throbs, and he begins to hack and retch involuntarily. He hasn’t eaten, but his stomach still tries to purge. Mucous and bile come up in strings that stick to his face and dribble down the front of his shirt. 

Bucky rolls over, gasping for air that he doesn’t want to be breathing. He wants to be angry, but he’s too broken. He pulls at the rope around his neck, freeing it over his head and holding his cold, shaky fingers over the burn marks beneath his chin. He sighs. Then quietly curses. Not only is he alive, but he’s even more of a mess than he was when he started. Bucky wonders briefly if he should call an ambulance. He wonders even more briefly if he should call Steve. But a flush of deep embarrassment and even deeper pain keeps him there on his back in the tub. 

After a minute, or perhaps an hour, Bucky finally reaches up for the control knob to pull himself up, and in the process, turns it on. Icy water flows out of the spigot and over his head, drenching him and leaving him sputtering. He struggles against the slippery floor for a moment, then gives up, settling under the frigid spray to die again.

But perhaps it’s less a drowning but a baptism. A dousing to refresh rather than kill him. It makes something deep within Bucky crack, like glass surrounding his heart, sending painful splinters deep into the surrounding flesh. He’s used to the hurt, though. He’d been prepared to die with it, but death spat him and his troubles back out. Now the only thing next to do is live with it all. 


End file.
